Retrato de Pablo Picasso (1900)
Ramón Casas y Carbó (1866 - 1932)
Carboncillo y pastel sobre papel
Museo Nacional de Arte de Cataluña (MNAC), Barcelona, España.
O I had a future
A future
Gods of the imagination bring back to life
The personality of those streets,
Not any streets
But the streets of nineteen forty.
Give the quarter-seeing eyes I looked out of
The animal-remembering mind
The fog through which I walked towards
The mirage
That was my future.
The women I was to meet
They were nowhere within sight.
And then the pathos of the blind soul,
How without knowing stands in its own kingdom.
Bring me a small detail
How I felt about money,
Not frantic as later,
There was the future.
Show me the stretcher-bed I slept on
In a room on Drumcondra Road,
Let John Betjeman call for me in a car.
It is summer and the eerie beat
of madness in Europe trembles the
Wings of the butterflies along the canal.
O I had a future.
A future
Gods of the imagination bring back to life
The personality of those streets,
Not any streets
But the streets of nineteen forty.
Give the quarter-seeing eyes I looked out of
The animal-remembering mind
The fog through which I walked towards
The mirage
That was my future.
The women I was to meet
They were nowhere within sight.
And then the pathos of the blind soul,
How without knowing stands in its own kingdom.
Bring me a small detail
How I felt about money,
Not frantic as later,
There was the future.
Show me the stretcher-bed I slept on
In a room on Drumcondra Road,
Let John Betjeman call for me in a car.
It is summer and the eerie beat
of madness in Europe trembles the
Wings of the butterflies along the canal.
O I had a future.
Tuve un futuro
Tuve un futuro,
un futuro.
Dioses de la imaginación, revivid
la personalidad de aquellas calles,
no unas calles cualesquiera,
sino las calles de mil novecientos
cuarenta.
Dadme los ojos miopes con los que miraba,
la mente con memoria de animal,
la niebla que iba atravesando hasta el
espejismo
que era mi futuro.
Las mujeres que debía encontrar
no estaban a la vista.
Y después el dolor del alma ciega
que sin saberlo está en su propio reino.
Dadme algún detalle
de cómo sentía el dinero,
sin la ansiedad posterior,
había futuro.
Mostradme la cama plegable donde dormía
en un cuarto de Drumcondra Road.
Que John Betjeman pase a buscarme en
coche.
Es verano y el redoble oscuro
de la locura en Europa agita las alas
de las mariposas sobre el canal.
Tuve un futuro.
Traducción: Fruela Fernández
Patrick Kavanagh (Irlanda, 1904 – 1967).
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